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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29656818">Give Me More</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope'>IncandescentAntelope</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Role Reversal, Viktor is a Yuuri stan, mentions of pet death, porn but it's kinda sad, reverse au, sad but hopeful ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 13:40:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,433</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29656818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Viktor Nikiforov is the Katsuki Yuuri fan. After he wins his first Grand Prix in Sochi and his idol fails, Viktor has a night he’ll never forget.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Give Me More</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here’s Viktor’s outfit at the gala! <a href="https://imgur.com/a/nLCrQ1z"> click me!</a></p>
<p>notes on the dubious consent: Yuuri is drunk and has just lost Vicchan. He's not in a good place to make decisions.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Gold should have felt better, Viktor thought as he stepped down from the podium. He pushed past Leroy, not at all willing to listen to the Canadian skater self-aggrandize. Christophe smiled at him, handing him a rose from his bouquet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“From China.” His friend said with a wink, a dark red rose now tucked in among the blue ones Viktor was holding. A rose for a rose, he smiled inwardly, remembering the challenge he had issued to Chris back then. They were competing together again, both now finally graduated from Junior’s and taking the Senior’s division relentlessly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fourth place skater, Crispino, was off sulking somewhere, more than likely chastising his sister for looking at a man in any certain way (though the skating world knew she had taken a liking to a certain female skater from Viktor’s own team), and fifth place Cao Bin was nowhere to be found, as usual. The man was difficult to find as it was— he rarely gave interviews. But the one skater Viktor was most eager to meet was the unfortunate sixth place skater.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yakov had quietly cheered when Katsuki Yuuri flubbed his triple axel, and again when he over-rotated, landing hard on his hip. Viktor was mortified, hiding his expression behind his hands as Yuuri pushed himself off the ice, propelling himself through the rest of his skate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was almost magic, Viktor thought, as he showered off in the locker room. He still pushed on, despite failing so publicly… the gold around Viktor’s neck felt hollow, felt unearned. Yuuri should have been harder to defeat. It felt like an anticlimax, to have worked for so long to skate on the same ice as Katsuki Yuuri, only to win because of a fall, because of a mistake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wished Yuuri hadn’t fallen, that he hadn’t missed his jump. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shouldn’t have been so easy to beat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can have one- and I do mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>one, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Vitya- drink at the banquet later.” Yakov was droning on in his ear as they waited for their car to take them back to the hotel. “You have an early flight, I won’t have you hungover in the morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yes.” Viktor hummed along plaintively, scrolling through the aftermath of the #GPF2016 tag on Twitter, swallowing against the bile being spewed Yuuri’s way. There were already memes. Viktor felt sick to his stomach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor had been a fan for how long, now? Years, at least. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If asked, that was the polite way to put it. Viktor had harbored a much less... </span>
  <em>
    <span>platonic</span>
  </em>
  <span> admiration for the older skater, ever since his senior debut. Yuuri made music with his body, music that Viktor had noticed in more ways than were appropriate. His skates had him either writhing in his seat, a jacket in his lap to conceal a hard on or moved to tears, and there was scarcely an in-between. He had taken himself in hand countless times watching Yuuri’s skates and his interviews, spent irresponsible amounts of his allowances and early sponsorship money on Japanese magazines with Yuuri’s interviews and photos published in them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor had learned very rudimentary Japanese just to read them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Adopting his Makkachin had been inspired by Yuuri as well, her cuddly, squirmy puppy self a large copy of Yuuri's, as well as a substitute for the affection he craved most when his parents separated; the divorce left him in Yakov and Lillia’s care, with neither of his parents able to reliably support him. Even despite his minor celebrity in the figure skating world. At least in Russia, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Skating became his life, and skating on the same ice as Yuuri someday was his goal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri had captured his attention since day one, really. It seemed no one, not even Yakov or his teammates understood his craft, his art, the way that Viktor did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone in his life had expected him to idolize a Russian skater, Plushenko or Yagudin. Viktor had met them both a handful of times and been impressed, of course, but there was something different about the way Katsuki moved on the ice. Viktor watched every competition he could, following Yuuri’s career closer than any of his peers, closer than some in the JSF, it seemed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now, at Viktor’s first Grand Prix Final, on the eve of his twentieth birthday, Katsuki Yuuri was in the lobby of the arena, his coach rubbing him between the shoulders. Their eyes met for a moment, a bright, heady moment, and Yuuri gave him a small smile, a little wave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor thought he might faint. Yuuri had acknowledged him. He had skated past him in public practice, but never stopped to chat. He was notorious for his serious-as-death demeanor on the ice, and it was enough to keep idle chatter a pleasant dream. But when Viktor opened his mouth to say hi from across the lobby, Yuuri spoke first.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Would you like to take a photo together?" Yuuri smiled, but the corner of his mouth twitched downward, only for a moment. "I'd be honored to pose with the Grand Prix champion."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor blinked at him, wide eyed and flushed. Katsuki Yuuri was talking to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…” Viktor managed, his heart hammering in his throat. He saw the red irritation around Yuuri’s eyes, tinting the dark, rich brown with pain. “Yeah, I would really like that.” Viktor replied in English, his hands shaking as he left his rolling bag with Yakov. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were amazing today,” Yuuri said with a tired smile, and Viktor felt himself shiver at the sound of his voice in person. It was soft, just like it was on TV. His presence felt warm, soothing, in a way that Viktor could have only hoped it to be. “I knew you weren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> a newcomer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor choked on nothing, his messy ponytail falling over his shoulder. “I… thank you, that’s very kind.” He felt warm down to his toes with the praise, but the rasp of Yuuri’s voice felt wrong, felt off. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He asked, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m very much a fan, Viktor.” Yuuri answered with ease, wrapping an arm around Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor was nearly too shocked to lift his arm, and nearly ascended when he saw his reflection in the front-facing camera. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Katsuki Yuuri was there, with his arm around his shoulder, smiling at his phone. “I’ve followed your career for a while. Scoping out the competition.” He added with a wink, and Viktor nearly fainted. Again.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>How does one survive being complimented by their idol? Asking for one Viktor Nikiforov.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, I’m… a fan too.” Viktor choked out, raising his arm for a selfie. Yuuri smiled and said cheese, which was unfairly sweet of him, his dark eyes glittered behind his glasses. Viktor was certain that the photo came out blurred, his arms were still shaking when he stepped away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thoughts refused to leave him alone, though. Why had Yuuri failed? Viktor had worked all season for the chance to beat him only to win because of Yuuri’s errors. He should have taken silver to Yuuri’s gold, or look down at Yuuri from the tallest stair. Instead he watched Yuuri move stiffly through the crowd of reporters to the locker room and disappear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you do well again at Worlds, Viktor.” Yuuri said with a kind smile, at the same time that Viktor blurted:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your jumps weren’t on today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His stomach dropped to his feet. Never before had Viktor so desperately wanted to bite his own tongue off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri’s eyes widened, dark lashes fluttered in shock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that,” Viktor hurried to offer, his words stumbling over each other to be the first out of his mouth. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I just—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” Yuuri said, his face a combination of fondness and melancholy that hurt to look at. Yuuri was beautiful, seeing him look any amount of upset felt like a sin. “I didn’t do my best today, you’re right. I didn’t hit my jumps.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” Viktor’s cheeks were hot, his stomach had tangled itself in knots. “God, I’m so sorry, that was awful of me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri set a firm hand on his shoulder, his smile almost pained. “I know. It’s okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will you be at Worlds?” Viktor asked, his throat tight and strained. The hesitation in Yuuri’s eyes was as clear as it could possibly be. “You have to, Yuuri, you have to be there—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri pushed out a slow breath and nodded, a small, half-cocked smile gave Viktor the briefest glimmer of hope. “I hope so,” Yuuri said, clapping Viktor’s shoulder with an awkward, jittery arm. “As long as you’re there too, Viktor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It felt like a challenge, and Viktor felt himself smiling despite the roiling frustration in his head. “I’ll be there as long as you’re there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri smiled and turned back to his coach, who immediately handed him his phone. Viktor heard the beginning of a conversation in Japanese, but by the time Yuuri had been escorted through the doors, he was out of earshot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something heavy sat in the pit of his stomach as Yuuri walked away, and even the photo they had taken barely shook that feeling free. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor shared it to his timeline with a litany of heart emojis before pocketing it, knowing the replies would be a mess within minutes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor smiled as he adjusted his tie, a unique kind of comfort settled over him when he looked in the mirror. With his hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, he looked just as androgynous as he had hoped— ambiguity was his favorite toy to play with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yakov had given into his pleading, letting him wear his peplum jacket instead of his boring blazer… the soft ribbon tie and rounded collar of his shirt were his own little surprises. And the heeled loafers were specifically meant to put Yakov’s blood pressure through the roof. He liked the way he looked in clothes like these. The jacket moved around him like a skirt, it made his waist look, pulled in and slim. It felt feminine and it felt wonderful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>These kinds of affairs were boring, full of toasts and speeches that only got in the way of more drinks and dancing. It was a celebration of the season, a hard fought battle. But it still felt empty, and Viktor hated it: idle chit chat with sponsors and choreographers eager to win his favor, to bend his and Yakov’s ear for the following season. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The questions were all the same, and Viktor was sick of it. He finally tore himself away from his coach’s side and hid away in one corner of the ballroom, nursing something strong and sweet while scrolling through his Timeline. He was right to fear his mentions and notifications, finding them full of bile aimed Yuuri’s way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri hadn’t given any interviews after the medal ceremony, and Viktor would know— Twitter was completely devoid of positive mentions. The articles that mentioned him were just this side of cruel, including official photos of Yuuri’s ugly spills with patronizing captions reading “Oops”, and “Just a little too close to the ice”. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor wanted to throw up. Yuuri didn’t deserve all this. He was a living legend, a pioneer on the ice and off; Yuuri’s quiet but devoted activism for LGBTQ+ rights had inspired Viktor to attend his first Pride parade when he was fifteen, and to come out publicly when he debuted in Senior’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t look like you just took gold right out from under Leroy’s nose,” Christophe teased, sidling up beside him with a half-empty glass of champagne. “Why so dour, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cher</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor scowled up at him through his fringe, still adjusting to their new height difference, even with heels— Chris had sprouted like a bean pole that summer. “You know why.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Christophe laughed softly, sipping his drink. “He’ll come back from it, you know he will. He’s a champion, he’ll get back up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But what if he doesn’t?” Viktor asked, his stomach dropping as he scrolled through countless jabs at Yuuri’s misfortune. A handful of his fans, even, had taken to comparing their triple axels… Viktor’s own flawless one beside Yuuri’s failed one. It turned his stomach. “My own fans are calling him washed up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Christophe tutted and pulled Viktor’s phone from his hands, stuffing the device in his coat pocket. “That’s enough Twitter for the night, dear. Go dance. Get drunk. Make some mistakes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor pouted at him with a furrowed brow. “Awful rude of you, Christophe. And on my birthday too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chris laughed, bright and jaunty as he toasted to his friend and rival. “Not until midnight it isn’t!” he teased in reply, worming himself onto the dance floor with Viktor’s phone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor huffed a sigh and threw back the rest of his drink, shuddering through the burn of vodka. He tapped his glass twice on the bartop and another was firmly in his hand before he had even made eye contact with the bartender. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Happy birthday, Viktor.” the bartender said sweetly, and Viktor might have asked for his number if he hadn’t spotted Yuuri from across the room, chatting with his coach, a mostly-finished glass of champagne in his hand. The slump of his shoulders was obvious, and the smile on his mouth looked like it was made of plastic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Losses weighed on everyone differently, but this… this hurt Viktor to see. And Yuuri usually carried losses better than this. He was a stubborn competitor, but never a sore loser. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor danced through the gathered crowd, moving slowly through the throng of skaters celebrating their hard-fought season. Viktor usually found himself at home on the dance floor, flirting with skaters from all over the world and perhaps bedding one or a few of them, but tonight his heart was set on Yuuri. On apologizing, on making it up to him, on finding out </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> it had gone wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room was alive with people, thrumming like a living organism. People lifted their glasses to Viktor as he passed, cheering his win— he barely heard them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Viktor made his way across the floor, it was clear that Yuuri was </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span> with a capital G, drunk without a doubt. His cheeks were flushed in a distinctly attractive way, the red running down the column of his throat. He had loosened his tie already, his shirt and jacket were crumpled too. He looked like a mess, but god, Viktor liked how he looked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Viktor! Hi again," Yuuri slurred wetly, interrupting whatever conversation he had been having with his coach. “You look pretty tonight~” His giggle had Viktor feeling hot under his collar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello Viktor, spectacular performance tonight,” Yuuri’s coach greeted, stepping in and tipping his flute of champagne in Viktor’s direction. “Your lutz was flawless.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Thank you, Mr. Cialdini, I've been working hard on it all season." Viktor beamed with the praise, Yuuri’s coach ruffling his hair with a wide smile. There was an odd silence in the air while Yuuri drank the rest of his champagne, Cialdini acknowledged Viktor with a firm nod, saying what both of them were thinking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish this was on better terms.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ciao Ciao, you know Viktor?” Yuuri asked after swallowing, his rich, earthy eyes wide with wonder. Cialdini laughed and Viktor did too, the childish nickname bringing a smile to his lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only as much as you do, Yuuri.” his coach clapped him on the back and strode off after a waitress, carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Viktor felt the weight of Yuuri’s eyes on him, warm and fond. It was different from earlier, when the heaviness of the loss was clearer in the posture of Yuuri’s shoulders… here, Viktor could still see it, the way Yuuri’s frown had carved twin curved lines into his cheeks, even if the champagne was dulling the edge of it for now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Viktoru,” Yuuri said in a giggly whisper, his accent softening Viktor’s name into a permutation that he would never forget. “It’s your birthday tomorrow, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The breath was almost instantly pulled out of Viktor’s lungs. Yuuri knew his birthday? It felt like a trick, like he had fallen on the ice and all of this was just an elaborate glimpse into the afterlife. He wasn’t sure when he had pulled his lip into his mouth and begun to gnaw on it, but the way Yuuri was smiling at him felt too real to be a dream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Y-yeah,” Viktor nodded, his cheeks burning bright. “How-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Any questioning was cut off when Yuuri took him by the hand and guided him out onto the dance floor, finding themselves perfectly fitting into the group of people around them. Yuuri’s hands sat warm and heavy on his hips. Viktor thought his heart might stop at any second, swaying on the dance floor with Katsuki Yuuri’s arms around him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor tentatively wrapped his arms around Yuuri’s neck, lacing his fingers behind his head. He could feel the warmth of his drink-flushed skin through his coat. The song was loud and bassy, people all around them were laughing and dancing, not paying an ounce of attention to the two of them, which Viktor was exceedingly grateful for. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri leaned closer, their height difference only exaggerated with Viktor’s heels. How many nights had he fantasized about moments like this? Yuuri’s lips were close enough to feel his breath warm against his ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I give you a birthday kiss?” Yuuri asked, his voice low and sweet and everything Viktor had imagined it to be. It sent a shudder down Viktor’s spine, pooling warm and heavy in his stomach. He nodded, almost shaking his ponytail loose in the process. Yuuri laughed, a bright, bubbly thing and leaned in, pressing his lips to Viktor’s throat, dancing wetly up his chin to the corner of his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuuri—” Viktor managed, the music drowning him out in his own ears. Yuuri’s lips crashed into his, warm and demanding, tangling with his expertly. He felt himself reverberating like a rung bell, arching into Yuuri like a magnet’s perfect half. Whatever lackluster kisses he had gotten before meant nothing now, being kissed breathless on the dancefloor by </span>
  <em>
    <span>Katsuki Yuuri.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He clung to Yuuri’s jacket, well and truly wrinkled now, as Yuuri’s thigh slid between Viktor’s, a heady, grinding beat rattling in their chests. Viktor was grateful for the surrounding crowd, almost painfully aware of how hard he was, and how much of a mess he looked in Yuuri’s grasp. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Viktoru,” Yuuri whispered against his mouth, wet and loose with drink. “I want to- I want more,” Viktor bit his lip, holding in a moan at the thought of </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He nodded and let Yuuri lead him through the crowd and into a darkened hallway. The restroom was empty and dark, and Yuuri giggled as he pulled Viktor through the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lock it?” Yuuri asked and Viktor obliged, keen on keeping a scrap of privacy. Yuuri’s lips met his again, pressed up against the bathroom door— rutting against his hip and moaning shamelessly into his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Viktor, you’re beautiful,” Yuuri moaned wetly, the praise sending a pang of something heady through Viktor. He was praised all the time, by coaches, by reporters, by fellow skaters, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>… this was different. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor whined, arching into Yuuri’s groin. “Yuuri, please, touch me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was something impossibly hot about begging for Yuuri’s touch, all the wet dreams he had ever dreamed were coming to life and none of them compared. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri’s hands slipped between his jacket and his shirt, finding his nipples hard and his chest heaving. His fingers plucked and rolled them expertly, wringing moan after shivering moan from Viktor’s mouth. When Viktor was sure he had never been harder in his life, Yuuri pushed his shirt up to his collarbones and pulled his right nipple into his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuuri!” Viktor choked out, covering his mouth with one hand and bucking into Yuuri’s hips. The unspoken plea for more spurred him on, it seemed, and Yuuri’s hand meandered down the middle of his stomach to the button of his slacks, pausing for an impossibly long moment. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, please-” was all Viktor managed to say, and Yuuri flicked his fly open. He swallowed down another moan when Yuuri pushed his pants down to mid-thigh and his hand wrapped around his cock, but the touch punched a whimper out of his chest anyway. “Yuuri, yes!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri whispered something in Japanese against his chest, but Viktor was far too gone to translate— not with his touch threatening to tear him apart completely. Viktor writhed under his touch, fucking into Yuuri’s fist with every downstroke and shivering every time his hand rolled over the sensitive head of his cock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You too?” Viktor asked, barely able to voice anything more than a moan. “Can I touch you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri nodded, a breathless moan huffed hot against Viktor’s chest. Viktor shivered when he got his hand around what Yuuri had below the belt, thick and hot and perfect. Yuuri’s moans pitched higher and higher as Viktor stroked, as they rocked together, chased their pleasure together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gonna come, Viktor-” Yuuri warned, breathless and messy; the warning lit a fire in Viktor’s core, the thought of what he was doing, of what he had done, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was touching, sent him hurtling toward the edge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me too, god,” Viktor sobbed, his ears ringing with Yuuri’s sounds. “Come, come with me.” That invitation was the last of either man’s English before they came, gasping as pleasure unspooled with a snap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heaving chests slowly caught their breath and they came down from the high together, come quickly cooling on each other’s thighs, on Viktor’s lower stomach. Yuuri hummed, warm and loose, catching Viktor’s lips in another kiss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re incredible.” Yuuri whispered against his mouth, and Viktor melted with the praise. “I think I drank too much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor laughed breathlessly and pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser. “I think you did.” Yuuri laughed too, bubbly and light. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ciao Ciao’s gonna kill me.” Yuuri sighed, letting Viktor wipe the spend from his thighs. “He was already gonna kill me. But this is making it worse.” Viktor tried to hold his tongue, but it simply refused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was looking forward to working hard against you, Yuuri." Viktor admitted, the clarity of orgasm hitting him harder than he had expected it to. Yuuri’s brow scrunched up, physically recoiling from the accusation. Viktor crossed his arms— how else could he have said it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri went silent, his bright brown eyes looking tired, sad. Empty, even. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Make it harder next time.” Viktor settled for what felt right, deep in his gut. “Make it up to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me be your coach, Viktor.” Yuuri offered, swallowing thickly against what looked like a painful lump in his throat. The edge of tears shone in his eyes, and Viktor froze. He had never been good with crying that wasn’t his own. “Please. Let me make it up to you that way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All the breath rushed from Viktor’s chest in one fell swoop— watching as Yuuri sank to the tiled floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuuri, you— get up, don’t-” Viktor stammered, tugging him up by his jacket lapels. “Don’t cry, please.” Yuuri sniffed, loud and gooey, and for a moment Viktor questioned how Yuuri could have been so breathtakingly hot just a minute ago. “Make it up to me by skating. Make it hard at Worlds.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri buried his face in Viktor’s shoulder, a shuddery sigh ruffling Viktor’s sex-mussed hair. “I don’t know if I can do it. I have to go home, I missed it.” Yuuri babbled messily, “I missed him and now he’s gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor let him talk himself through it, rambling and sniffling all the way. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What a day,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought quietly, barely able to remember what had happened that morning. So much had changed, so much had shifted in so little time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who, Yuuri?” Viktor asked quietly, but all he got in return was a jumble of Japanese and messy sobs. “What room are you in?” He asked instead, seeing how much of a mess this could turn out to be. It was quiet in the elevator as they climbed to the sixteenth floor, Yuuri’s tears quieted to sniffles and Viktor’s heart continued to break. His phone, still with Christophe, was full of cruelty that Yuuri had likely already seen, or would see when he was sober.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurt, and he still hadn’t discovered why it had gone so poorly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri was nearly impossible to wrestle into bed, to shower and brush his teeth, but Viktor managed it. He managed to send a text to his coach, filling him in on the details. Well. Some of the details. Not all of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was well after midnight that Yuuri was tucked into his bed, lying on his side with a waste bin set strategically at his bedside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Viktor, it’s past midnight.” Yuuri whispered when Viktor set his phone to charge and slipped his glasses off his nose. “It’s your birthday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor nodded, feeling bold in adding his phone number to Yuuri’s contact list. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“O-tanjoubi omedetou,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he said with a smile as his eyes grew heavy, thick, dark lashes fanning across his cheeks still flushed with drink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Yuuri. See you at Worlds.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Star Figure Skater Struggles - Japan’s Ace Katsuki Yuuri </em>
  </b>
  <b>
    <em><br/>
</em>
  </b>
  <b>
    <em>Announces Tentative Retirement After Disastrous Grand Prix Final in Sochi</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yuuri’s rejection had been bad enough— not hearing from him after that night felt like an open wound. But this only rubbed salt into the wound. After failing to qualify for Worlds, Yuuri had taken to social media, a very rare occurrence, to pay tribute to his beloved Vicchan, to explain his horrific performance in Sochi, to apologize, and to announce his retirement, until further notice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Viktor had his flight booked and his bags packed within an hour of the Japanese article’s release.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dasvidaniya</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Yakov.” Viktor bid his coach goodbye, dragging his rolling suitcase behind him through the snow at Sheremetyevo. He had no idea what would be waiting for him when he landed, or if Yuuri had even remembered what he had promised. The photo he had taken that night, before the dancing, before the drinks, before Yuuri’s promise, had been his home screen, a reminder to look forward, to push further.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>~</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Starting today, you’re my new coach!” Viktor exclaimed, watching Yuuri’s face shift from disbelief to confusion, to shock and back again. “Let’s win the Grand Prix Final again. Together.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! please remember to practice safe sex! thank you!</p>
<p>&lt;3 ia</p></blockquote></div></div>
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